Truth Within
by Aerlinnel
Summary: Roger's in withdrawal. Mark's at the end of his rope. Collins imparts wisdom. PreRENT. Written for speedrent.


Mark was furious at Collins.

No, not furious. Angry, yes; but more than that, deeply, bitterly resentful. He'd been the one living with Roger all this time, whose life had become this hell of force-feeding and holding back hair and trying to make pain bearable. And always he faced the fact that Roger, when he had exhausted his resources of coaxing, pleading, and demanding, would resort to physical means to try to get out to meet his dealer. Collins was supposed to help, not kick down whatever tottering progress they had made.

After all, it was because of him that Collins was there in the first place. During one of his lowest points, when Roger was sleeping fitfully after having thrown Mark bodily into a wall in an attempt to leave the loft, Mark had addressed a letter to MIT:

_Collins,_

_I think I need your help. I don't know how to handle Roger._

_After April…after the April thing, we sat down together, the six of us, while he was still being tested in the hospital, and we agreed that the heroin had to go. It scared us all – at best, it would be an easy escape from the pain; at worst, it was an easy way to suicide. I thought I could do it, get him through breaking his habit. We didn't want to send him to a clinic, we thought we could spare his dignity and keep him at home._

_But I never expected it to be this…this fucking _marathon, _Thomas. I knew about the pain and the tremors and the sickness, and I knew there would be setbacks. But I can't even get him to _try. _He wants the hit because he knows it'll make him forget, and he doesn't care that it's running away. He knows it's killing him, and I can't get him to give a shit._

_I'm afraid of this. I don't know what to do._

_Mark_

Collins sent a postcard in return, just two lines – _Last week of March. Collins _– but Mark felt a weight lift off of his chest. If anyone could say the right thing to bring Roger around, it would be Professor Tom.

But then, like a miracle, Roger _had _come around, about two weeks after Collins wrote back. He fought through another bout of withdrawal and stayed in the loft without Mark locking the doors; he started trying to help out around the apartment. Every look at his roomate was a wordless apology for everything that had happened. And most importantly, he took his AZT on schedule and without a struggle. Mark was too grateful to ask what had caused the dramatic reversal. It looked like this time, Roger might actually stay clean. Collins' impending visit could only help to settle him on the straight and narrow.

March rolled around, and Collins arrived. Though it was early afternoon, Roger had been in his room, dozing, and Mark waved Collins in that direction. Roger wouldn't mind being woken up, not for this visitor.

Mark was at the table making a sandwich when he noticed that Collins had not closed the bedroom door fully. Before he realized it, he was standing at that crack, watching as Roger stirred awake and threw his arms warmly around Collins. _You're eavesdropping! _his mind yelled – but his vantage point gave him a perfect view of Roger, framed by Collins' shoulder, and he couldn't fight his curiosity. _And after all_, he argued, _I'm the one who's been taking care of him. This concerns me, too._

And so he heard Collins' first question clear as a bell, although it was almost unbelievable. It was the question that Mark had been afraid to say aloud, hiding instead behind his gratitude and hoping that whatever the answer was, it would last. "Roger – why are you doing this? Who are you doing this for?"

Roger's eyes dropped to his hands, and his response caught the unseen audience off-guard. "I've…I've put Mark through so much shit," he said softly. "He's just been there, and been there, and – I've done awful things. Said awful things. And still he's there for me." He looked up at Collins – _like a child_, Mark thought, _hoping that he's giving the right answer_. "So I'm doing this for Mark. Because he shouldn't have to feed me and wash my face and clean up vomit. It's not fair—"

Collins interrupted with a brief shake of his head. "Not enough." And Mark bit his tongue and had to slam his clenched fist into his own stomach, to keep from doing something irreparable to his friendship with the philosopher. How _dare _he toss that off so casually, when he hadn't even been there—

Roger opened his mouth and closed it, at a loss for a moment. Then he replied, "What do you mean, not enough?" His voice was sharp, almost strident. Mark preferred to construe it as offense on his behalf, rather than fear of Collins' veto of his reason.

"Rog. Roger. No, man, look at me." Collins chucked him firmly under the chin, tilting his face up. "Look." He spread his arms wide, and the thought flashed across Mark's mind that that gesture _defined _the man: always entirely open, vulnerable to a blow but encouraging an embrace. "This body, man," Collins continued, "this body's had HIV for – oh, going on four years now. Do you know how many people can let you down over four years?" He dropped his arms, and a gentle pain laced his tone. "They think they can handle it, but Rog – if I'd let myself depend on the strength of other people, I'd have been dead in a gutter somewhere a long time ago."

Roger shot to his feet. "Whatever the hell you're saying about Mark, you can—"

"Easy, boy, easy." Collins raised his hands placatingly. "Sit down, will you?" The younger man stood glaring for a minute, but when it became obvious that Collins would wait him out, he dropped back onto the bed, expelling an aggravated sigh. In a quiet voice, Collins continued, "I'm not saying anything about Mark. I love Mark too, Roger. But you can't live _for _him, see? You have to live for _you_." He poked Roger lightly in the chest for emphasis. "You have to find your reason in yourself to go on, past whatever friends and lovers might die or fail or leave. Because everyone – even with the best intentions – goes, sooner or later. You will, too. So what is so important to you that you want to keep living as long as you can? What is your passion?"

Roger's face was streaked with tears, but he seemed not to notice. "I…" His gaze shifted around the room, and Mark could almost hear him thinking – _what is it? What do I want so badly? _– until he came to the guitar standing in the corner, long silent, scraps of half-written ideas scattered on the floor around it. "I don't want to disappear!" he burst out finally, his hands clenching and opening convulsively. "I need to make a difference – I need to find – one song – just one truth – something I can leave behind—" His voice cracked on the last word, and he squeezed his eyes shut, the tears running freely now as he hunched his shoulders.

"All right, man. All right." Collins took him into a bear hug, rocking him as the fear and pain and anger bubbled to the surface. Reeling, Mark backed away from the door. The loft suddenly felt too close, the stagnation of the past months – _how haven't I felt it before? _– suddenly oppressive. All of it, everything Collins had said, it was him, too – living for Roger, living to make sure that he ate and slept and took his pills and kept off the smack. It was him.

Collins said as much, later, when he found Mark on the rooftop. They stood in companionable silence for a while, watching the sun drop slowly past the horizon. Then Collins glanced over at Mark. "That included you, too," he said, "everything I told Roger."

"You knew I was listening?"

"Of course, man. Why do you think I left the door open?"

Mark snorted. He should have known better than to think he could fool this man. Collins clapped him on the shoulder. "I know you've been taking care of him. And you're doing a hell of a job. Believe me, Mark, he's alive because of you, on a lot of different levels."

Something cold and hard in Mark's stomach unknotted suddenly and disappeared. To the unspoken question, he swept his hand over the city laid out at their feet. "This is mine, Thomas. This is my passion. God, there is so much _life _here…" His throat tightened suddenly, and he knew that he had found his truth. "And death, too. A thousand ways to die, and still life goes on. So many people don't know how we're fighting here." He thought of the camera in his room, untouched since April's death. "I can show them. I can make them see."

"Bearing witness to life," Collins mused softly.

It sounded almost too lofty an ambition, but Mark nodded. "Yeah. Yes." Another silence fell, as he wrapped his head around that, feeling the energy pulsing in it. It was the exquisitely painful tingle of blood returning to deadened limbs. It was the affirmation of life.

"Thank you, Collins," he said quietly.

The perpetually skullcapped head swiveled towards him with a wry grin. "Hell, boy, you think this is charity?"

"What do you mean?"

Collins looked back out over the horizon as it darkened to dusk, great sapphire curtains swinging down from over their heads. "The virus, man. Four years is a long time. Long enough – that I've started to make some sort of peace with it." He leaned over the wall, big hands dangling and clasped loosely. "I'm dying, but I'm living, see? For now, I feel great. It's just a reminder there, that I'm going to do the same thing that everyone else does – but that I might do it sooner, is all." He paused, then said simply, "I do this." He opened his arms again in that welcoming, embracing gesture. "I teach. There are too many people in this world who live with their heads on backwards, or up their asses. I try to do my little part to straighten some of them out. Of course—" he rolled his eyes – "it's a hit or miss deal with college kids. But sometimes I think it sinks in." With a smile, he indicated both Mark and Roger in the apartment below. "That's my difference."

His gaze shifted back to the glittering city lights. Mark stared at him as if he'd never before seen him quite clearly. "So – you're some kind of angel, Collins…" It came out as not quite a statement, a tacit question mark raising the end of the sentence. Mark reddened. Not that it would be mocked, but it still sounded a little ridiculous once he had said it.

His friend laughed – softly, but the sound warmed Mark like a Santa Fe breeze, and he found himself smiling in response. "Naw, man. I'm just a guy trying to do right by those he can. The real angel, she's still out there somewhere."

He nudged Mark with his shoulder as they leaned side by side against the wall. Nothing more was said; nothing was needed. They watched their city shimmer in the cool spring night, as sirens faded into the distance and the beat of one lone street drummer drifted up to their perch against the sky.


End file.
